The lake floated quietly in the void, its faint blue glow shimmering like a gem in endless darkness.
Arin could sense every ripple of its surface, every pulse of life inside it. The mutated cells—his first true children—thrived. They divided, consumed, and grew, glowing faintly with an inner radiance that mirrored the energy that birthed them.
The more they lived, the more energy flowed into him. It was a cycle, endless and soothing.
For the first time since his death, he felt peace.
But peace never lasted long.
---
After what felt like ages, something changed.
The glow within the cells began to fade. Their motion slowed. One by one, they died—silent, sinking to the bottom of the lake like falling dust.
Arin felt the loss as if a piece of his own being were fading.
> Why? What went wrong?
He searched, tracing the flow of energy through himself, through the matter, through every living thing he'd made. Then he found it—faint, nearly gone—the strange energy that had once mutated them.
It was nearly depleted.
He realized then that the mutated cells depended on that energy to live. It was not just a catalyst—it was a necessity.
> So that energy… is like air to them.
He concentrated, trying to remember how it had first appeared. When he'd guided the energy from the void toward the lake, it had changed—become something else before touching matter. He focused again, repeating the same process.
Void energy flowed through him, bending to his will, and once again, it transformed—turning into that mysterious, vibrant current that resonated with life.
When it reached the lake, the dying cells absorbed it greedily. Their fading light brightened again. Their motion returned. The dead stopped spreading.
> So it's true.
He had created their lifeblood.
Too little, and they suffocated.
Too much, and he remembered how it had burned them before.
He would have to balance it—create a steady flow, neither too rich nor too thin.
> Like oxygen… he mused, but for their souls.
He named the energies he had discovered.
The infinite, omnipresent force he absorbed from the void—raw, unshaped, chaotic—he called Void Energy.
And the refined, life-giving current that sustained his creations—stable, luminous, and harmonious—he called Spiritual Energy.
They were two sides of the same existence: one infinite but formless, the other finite but vital.
---
Once he understood the balance, life flourished again.
The cells multiplied, feeding on the spiritual energy that he gently wove through the waters. In turn, their growth drew more Void Energy into him, strengthening the cycle between creator and creation.
He spent an eternity experimenting—adjusting the ratio, changing the density, observing the rhythm of survival and death.
It fascinated him.
-----
Arin no longer remembered how long he had existed in the silent void. Time had long lost its meaning — replaced only by the steady pulse of energy he continuously absorbed from the endless nothingness around him.
Over the passing eons, the single-celled organisms diversified. Some developed membranes to protect themselves. Others clustered together, forming colonies that shared tasks. Eventually, multicellular life emerged — simple, fragile, but alive. He also expanded the world.
As Spiritual Energy flowed through this tiny ecosystem, Arin noticed a feedback loop: the more life thrived, the faster his world converted Void Energy. It was as if every heartbeat of life echoed through him, making his existence denser, more stable.
To nurture this world further, Arin began refining its structure. He thickened its crust, forming jagged landmasses that rose from the oceans like the spines of a growing beast. He guided void energy into the skies, shaping wind and pressure. Clouds began to gather, and for the first time, rain fell upon the land.
The soft rhythm of droplets striking stone filled the silent void, and Arin felt an odd satisfaction — like listening to a heartbeat that wasn't his own.
Still, something was missing.
He remembered the blue planet of his former life — Earth. It had its own cycle of light and dark, warmth and rest. Perhaps his world, too, needed rhythm.
So, he guided energy through himself and the sphere, creating a steady alternation — a rise of light, then its gentle fall into shadow. He crafted day and night, infusing his creation with time's first breath.
Plants — primitive yet resilient — began to take root along the coasts. Algae spread across the seas, feeding the air with faint traces of gas. Soon, simple organisms crawled onto land, their bodies strengthened by the spiritual energy that soaked the world.
Arin watched it all in silent wonder.
His small planet, once no larger than a speck of dust, now stretched vast enough to hold oceans, skies, and storms. By drawing more Void Energy, he compressed and stabilized the core, carefully shaping gravity until it matched the gentle pull he remembered from Earth.
Now, his world had mass, atmosphere, and balance. It had life — fragile, beautiful, and growing.
It was not yet Earth-sized, but it had reached nearly a tenth of that scale, dense and vibrant with spiritual potential. And Arin knew that as life continued to flourish, it would only grow stronger — just as he would.